IN THE LIGHT OF FORTUNE

The espresso machine hissed like an angry cat, and Claire Blake was fairly certain it was plotting her demise.

"Come on, come on," she muttered, whacking the side with her palm. The café was packed - harried commuters, laptop warriors, and one particularly grumpy businessman glaring at his watch.

"Claire!" Mrs. Chen called from behind the counter. "Table three has been waiting ten minutes!"

"I know! The machine's possessed again!"

Finally, the espresso machine cooperated. Claire grabbed the cup, added foam in a vague heart shape, and hurried toward table three.

She was three steps away when her shoe caught on absolutely nothing.

Time slowed. The cup flew in a graceful arc. And the entire contents of one large caramel macchiato landed directly on the crisp white shirt of the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

"Oh my God."

He stood abruptly, coffee dripping down his chest, frozen between shock and disbelief. Tall - easily over six feet - with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes so blue they reminded her of ocean photos in magazines she couldn't afford.

"I am so, so sorry!" Claire grabbed napkins. "I don't know what happened, my shoe - I'm so sorry!"

She reached to dab his shirt, then jerked back. "Sorry! I shouldn't - I can pay for dry cleaning! Or a new shirt!"

"It's fine." His voice was deep, surprisingly calm.

"It's not fine! This is a disaster. I'm a disaster. Mrs. Chen's going to kill me, and you're probably going to sue.."

"I'm not going to sue you."

"You should! This shirt probably costs more than my rent!"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "How much is your rent?"

Claire blinked. "What?"

"Your rent. How much?"

"I..that's not...why would you.." She shook her head. "Twelve hundred a month. For a shoebox with a radiator that sounds like it's digesting rocks."

He definitely smiled now. "Then yes, this shirt costs more than your rent."

Her stomach dropped. "Of course it does."

"But," he continued, pulling out his wallet, "I'm not going to make you pay for it." He held out a business card. "Send me a bill for whatever coffee I was supposed to receive. Consider us even."

She took the card automatically. Heavy, expensive, elegant lettering: DAMIAN COLE, CEO, COLE ENTERPRISES.

Her head snapped up. "You're Damian Cole?"

"Last time I checked."

"The Damian Cole? Like, owns-half-the-city Damian Cole?"

"I don't own half the city." He picked up his laptop bag. "Maybe a quarter."

She'd just dumped coffee all over one of the richest men in the state.

"I really am sorry," she said quietly. "About your shirt. And your morning. And everything."

He paused, studying her face. "What's your name?"

"Claire. Claire Blake."

"Well, Claire Blake," he said, and something about the way he said her name made her pulse skip, "I've had worse mornings. At least the coffee was hot."

"That's not actually a compliment in this scenario."

He almost laughed. "No, I suppose it's not." He headed for the door, then turned back. "The foam heart was a nice touch. Even if it ended up on my chest instead of in a cup."

Then he was gone.

Mrs. Chen appeared at her elbow. "Do I want to know?"

"I just assaulted Damian Cole with coffee."

"The billionaire?"

"Yes."

"The one who owns this building?"

Claire's eyes widened. "He owns this building?"

"Oh, sweetie." Mrs. Chen patted her shoulder. "Start looking for new jobs."

The rest of Claire's shift passed in anxiety-fueled catastrophizing. By the time she clocked out at two, her feet ached and she smelled like exploded coffee beans.

Her phone buzzed. Clara: Mom's doctor called. Can you pick up her prescription?

Claire checked her bank app and winced. Fifty-three dollars until Friday. The prescription would cost at least forty.

Got it. How was the calc test?

Aced it! MIT here I come!

Claire smiled despite her exhaustion. Clara was going to MIT. No matter what it took.

That night, lying in the bed she shared with Clara, Claire pulled out Damian Cole's business card. She'd looked him up during break. Thirty-two. Self-made billionaire. Photos showed him at galas with beautiful women, always perfect, always untouchable.

And she'd dumped coffee on him.

Clara peered over her shoulder. "Who's that?"

"No one. A customer."

"A customer whose card you're staring at like it holds secrets?"

Claire shoved it in her nightstand. "Go to sleep, genius."

But long after Clara's breathing evened out, Claire lay awake, thinking about blue eyes and an almost-smile and the strange fact that Damian Cole had been kind when he had every right to be furious.

By tomorrow, he'd have forgotten the whole incident.

Still, something about the way he'd looked at her - really looked at her, like she was a person instead of just a clumsy waitress - stayed with her as she finally drifted off.